Now I’m as willing an alibi as a brother could ask for, just maybe not the best. I’ve alibied for brothers to wives, bosses, teammates, and such. Yep, you lie and I’ll swear to it. But, you gotta let me know.
But if you’re going to use me as an alibi, tell me first. Thus the start of my tale.
He was called Groudy due to several personal hygiene traits. Example? Ok, his showers usually occurred when he was caught riding in the rain, his hair was the blackest you could buy at the drug store, and he never met an antiperspirant, ever.
His choice of girlfriends ran from strippers and hookers all the way to hookers and strippers. The current girlfriend was not an exception in that she worked as an “exotic dancer”. Having been together 3 or 4 months, she was setting a new record for putting up with Groudy.
So there I was, sitting at the bar minding my own cold beer and I hear Groudy’s bike pull in. After you been around bike’s and bikers long enough, you know what each individual’s bike sounds like, it’s a gift.
So I knew who it was, so I was not on guard when they walked in. With Groudy, I should have known better.
My first clue was the sudden sharp pain in the back of my head where someone had slapped me, hard. I turned around in time to see her pulling her hand back for a second shot. She launched the slap and I managed to deflect it with the side of my head.
Now that I was facing her, I realized the background noise was her screaming, at me.
“You no good son of a bitch.”
“How dare you keep my old man out for three fuckin’ days? What the fuck is wrong with you? “
“Mother fucker, I oughta cut your balls off you no good….” a class act this girl. That’s why she was an exotic dancer and not a stripper.
Like any good man, the moment I realized she was mad at me, I started apologizing immediately. Even if I had no idea why she was mad, at me.
Finally she began running out of steam, and nasty things to call me, so she smacked my shoulder, called me a couple of repeat names, and stomped off to a back table followed by Groudy with his head hanging like a man on his way to the gallows.
Groudy had already gotten drinks, a table in the back corner farthest from me. My buddy.
After a couple of minutes, Donna the bartender walked to my end of the bar and asked me what that had been all about. My only answer was, “I ain’t got a clue.”
Two or three drinks later, Groudy’s girl gets up goes to the bathroom. He hauls ass over to me as soon as the door started to close.
As soon as he gets close enough I asked, “What the hell was that all about?”
Well, the story is an old Groudy classic. The week before he’d been out riding, drinking, and running around and this other stripper had fallen in love with him. So he had spent the next three days, and nights, with stripper number two. Then he went home and told his girlfriend it was all my fault, because he’d been with me.
His story was I’d dragged him around, bought the booze, “gas”, and kept him on the go for three days and nights. It was really all my fault. He was just weak. Now it says something about a man’s reputation when she doesn’t even blink and is totally willing to buy this story without any proof or verification.
Now, as I said I don’t mind being an alibi, but at least tell me ahead of time. At least give me a fighting chance.
So I took the hit for Groudy. She would never speak to me as long as she was with Groudy, which was another couple of weeks, and he would buy my drinks any time we were together.
Of course, once she left, my gravy train stopped. But, believe me, it was the first story I’d tell to every new girlfriend Groudy brought around.
I’m a good alibi, but I’m not a stupid one.